


Aparecium

by test_kard_girl



Series: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Eight [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Drarry, Enemies to Lovers, Gay Draco Malfoy, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kissing, M/M, Post-War, Quidditch, Quidditch Uniforms, Sexual Tension, awkward boys, but still, no definitely hate each other, they probably hate each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: What Harry didn't say to Hermione, however, was that the emotions he'd attached to Malfoy had never really made sense. Even now.Especially now.Yeah, you knew I was gonna write it. Harry and Draco have an awkward, improbable liaison in the Quidditch changing rooms. Set post-Deathly Hallows in a hand-wavey eighth year that, really, neither of them should be attending because they should be IN THERAPY.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Eight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176149
Comments: 10
Kudos: 115





	Aparecium

_Of course it is_ , Harry thinks resignedly, when he shoves the changing room door open and finds Draco Malfoy glowering back at him. The other boy's cool grey eyes appraise him for a long moment.

'Don't worry. I'm just going.' He assures him pointedly, and returns to tugging at his bootlaces.

It's the first sentence they've exchanged since the start of term. Harry swings his broom off his shoulder. He wants to sigh heavily, but doesn't think riling Malfoy will do him any good. 'Right.'

He sets his broom and his kit bag down; plonks onto the bench to start pulling his soggy trainers off and replace them with his Quidditch boots. He should've worn them on the way down. The grounds were sodden, a moist, seeping green, his breath coming in hazy puffs of cloud as he stamped across the quad.

Grateful for the rain against the changing rooms' tin roof puncturing the silence, Harry pulls his glasses off to rub the steam from them and risks a glance at the boy opposite him.

Draco isn't in his Slytherin greens, but a dark-coloured practice kit and a pair of expensive-looking fingerless Seeker's gloves, his damp-heavy cloak hanging limply on a peg beside him. Harry doesn't think he's ever seen Malfoy actually _practice_ before. He looks studiously back at his laces as Draco drags his Quidditch sweater over his t-shirt. He guesses he's grown out of his sixth-year playing kit by now. Same as him.

God, the last tournament they played feels like decades ago.

When he goes, Harry doesn't look up. Just breathes a sigh of relief and tries to ignore the perpetual tightness in his chest that tries to climb up his throat whenever Malfoy's around.

Hermione said that it was to be expected, after all they'd been through. Difficult emotions attached to trauma—Hogwarts was no longer just school to them; the other pupils were no longer just their classmates. Harry could see the sense in that.

What he didn't say to Hermione, however, was that the emotions he'd attached to Malfoy had never really made sense. Even now.

Especially now.

'...Ah shit.'

Harry puts his foot back on the floor and realises there's a long, weirdly glowing stain spattering his right leg from whatever potions supplies Peeves had been decorating the corridor with. He thought he'd got the most of it. Fucking poltergeist.

He stands, swiping uselessly at his knee, and jumps as the changing room door thumps against the wall again.

(Harry really wishes people would stop slamming things.)

'You forget something, Draco?' He grits, the bang ricocheting around his head. Then he notices the odd set to Draco's jaw.

'...Are you following me?' The other boy asks, flat.

Harry sighs. 'What—?'

'—Because there's no need, you know.' Draco lets the door swing shut behind him, but he doesn't move out of the doorway. 'McGonnagall _always_ has her eye on me. On all the Slytherins.' He gestures sharply towards the castle. 'I imagine she'll be down here any minute to check I haven't done any damage to precious Po—'

'I'm not following you, Draco.' Harry interrupts, trying to keep his voice even. 'I didn't know you were here, you weren't on the sheet.'

'You keep staring at me. All the time.' Draco continues. 'Everytime I look up you're looking at me.'

Harry feels his heart thump against his ribcage.

'Why would I be staring at you?'

'You do have this tendency to want to swoop in and save the day—'

'—And what do I need to save it from?' Harry snaps, something exhausted and furious tightening in his gut. 'Are you planning any other staff murders I should know abou—?'

Malfoy drops his kit bag and moves his hand, but Harry's faster—his Seeker's reflexes and oh so much practice—and has the other boy against the wall with his arm across his chest and his wand pointed at his throat before he even thinks about it.

Harry breathes. Tries to breathe. Tries to calm down. A few years ago—a year ago—Draco would have snarled at him; fought back. Now, he freezes, glowers, eyes the same colour as the mist outside. Harry can feel his chest rising and falling against his.

He tightens his grip on his wand.

'God Draco, if you're trying to fly under the radar maybe stop being so quick to try and curse people without any witnesses, huh?'

'Why do you keep staring at me?' Draco repeats, and Harry furiously wants to Silencio him. No-one would mind. It'd be a welcome change.

'You're paranoid.'

Draco makes a derisive noise. 'Oh no doubt... _Get off me_.' He shoves a hand into Harry's chest and Harry goes where he pushes him. He doesn't have the energy for this. Draco drags himself away from the wall. His hair is damp from the drizzle outside and a few strands stick across his forehead. 'I'm not _wrong_ though, am I?'

They glower at each other. Harry opens his mouth to deny him again—possibly to tell him to go off and die in a ditch—but before he can get a word out, Draco presses forward to fit his still-gloved hands around Harry's face and pull their mouths together.

He kisses him, hard and awkward and Harry doesn't even know if he moves at all before the other boy lets him go again, leaving Harry's hands hanging in mid-air.

For a long, long moment, they stare at each other.

Draco's exhale shakes. 'Am I?' He repeats mulishly.

(Confession: he isn't.)

The rain continues to patter against the roof, and the air around them feels like it might crack, like the ice feathering the banks of the lake that Harry almost put his foot through on the way down.

Carefully, Harry pushes his wand into his pocket. Reaches across with cold fingers and pulls Draco back to him.

They kiss, agonisingly slowly. Harry thinks maybe neither of them really remember how to do it. But everytime their lips meet heat unspools all through his body with such intensity he has to force himself not to groan. He fists one hand tighter in the front of Draco's sweater; curls his other one around his face. His fingers are shaking. He can see them in his own peripheral vision.

'Hang on—' Draco says roughly, pulls back. Harry blinks.

'...What?'

But he's just tugging awkwardly at the clasp of his cloak, still fastened around his neck. He gets it in a moment; chucks it towards the benches where it lands in a pile then slithers to the floor.

'Good thing you're not a Chaser.' Harry notes dryly, and the other boy narrows his eyes at him.

'Can you take those off?' He nods at Harry's face and Harry realises he means his glasses. He thinks, yeah: kissing is probably alot more comfortable without a bit of metal digging into his nose. Without them, he has to step a little bit closer to see how oddly Draco's looking at him.

'They do come off.' Harry tells him.

'Looks weird.' Draco says flatly and it's Harry's turn to glare.

'Oh okay, shall I put them back on th—?'

But Draco arrests the words by leaning in and finding his mouth again, his hands fisted in the sides of Harry's t-shirt.

It's harder now, more frantic. Harry buries his nails in the back of Draco's neck and kisses him until he opens his mouth for him, lets his tongue inside. The warm, slick wetness of it... Harry thinks he wants to get closer, and he can't, and he pushes at Draco and is mildly surprised when he goes, stumbling the few steps backwards before he hits the wall behind them and lets Harry crowd up against him, pushing his fingers up through the sides of hair.

Draco buries his teeth in Harry's bottom lip and Harry isn't sure he doesn't _growl_.

It feels like the first time he travelled by Floo powder: his head spinning, the floor slipping from under his feet...

He drags away for a breath; presses his face against the side of Draco's and wonders a bit at how well he knows the smell of him. That's...probably not a good sign. He hears the soft sound of something falling to the floor and realises Draco's managed to work his gloves off a few seconds later when the other boy's hands slip under his t-shirt, cold against Harry's too-warm skin. Harry kisses Draco's neck, desperate for more of his skin against his and his breath catches in his chest when his hands slip lower under the back of Harry's jeans, grabbing his arse and forcing their bodies excruciatingly close.

' _Fuck_.' Harry hears Draco exhale and lifts his head, fitting his hand around the other boy's jaw and kissing his mouth again.

He's so hard and he can't help how he pushes against Draco's thigh, desperate for some friction. He'd feel more embarrassed if Draco wasn't in exactly the same state, his hands hot on Harry's backside dragging him closer over and over. They keep kissing, but it's getting clumsy now, the rhythm stuttering and Harry just—he doesn't—he doesn't want it to stop.

He lets his hands slip downwards and, before he thinks about it too much, tugs at the fly at the front of Draco's Quidditch trousers.

Draco disengages one of his hands and catches Harry's wrist, fingers tight against his skin.

They stare at each other, chests heaving.

Harry swallows, heavily:

'Do you want me to..?'

Draco looks at him, and Harry notices how big his pupils are. An odd look flits across his face and for one awful second Harry thinks he's going to laugh. Like this is all a big joke. But he doesn't. Just takes another shivering inhale and nods. '...Alright.'

He lets go of Harry's wrist and doesn't look away as Harry finishes unbuttoning him and pushes his hand inside his underwear.

Draco smacks his head back against the wall and swears.

It's a different angle and it's...really weird...having a cock in his hand that isn't his own, but, well: Harry's been a teenage boy for a pretty long time now.

Draco is already slick and this makes it easier. Experimentally, Harry drags his fist along the other boy's length. He's shivering so hard he's surprised he can move at all, but he takes Draco mouthing silent expletives at the ceiling as a good sign and does the same thing again, and again, shifting his hand to get a better grip, and Draco moves his hips and it doesn't take too long before they find a scrappy kind of rhythm, Harry pushing his own erection hard against Draco's thigh as he works his hand. Draco's trying very hard to stay quiet, but every tiny, needful sound that falls from between his lips is like a spark landing on Harry's bare skin and he realises...He wants this. He wants this quite alot. Trying to ground himself a bit, he cards the fingers of his other hand through the front of Draco's hair, messing it up purposefully and irreparably, and he holds Draco's gaze as he strokes him, faster and faster, and finds he isn't embarrassed at all.

Still. It's a bit of a shock when the other boy comes in his hand, gasping against Harry's mouth, his fingers tight in the back of Harry's hair. Harry catches his lip between his teeth, bites down, kisses him hard and it's very satisfying that for a long moment Draco doesn't have the coordination to kiss him back.

They breathe for a few minutes, hard staccato breaths in the cold. Very aware of how sticky he is, Harry quickly extricates his hand from Draco's underwear.

'Don't you dare—' Draco manages and rolls his eyes when Harry ignores him and wipes his hand off on the thigh of his no-doubt-expensive trousers.

His body is thrumming, pain starting in his temples that has nothing to do with anything supernatural and more to do with him having no blood north of his dick anymore, and he buries his face in Draco's neck; breathes in. Shifts his own hips and instantly regrets it.

'...Potter.' the other boy mutters and Harry lifts his head again. Draco presses the side of his thumb briefly against Harry's face then takes it away immediately like it burns him.

'...Do you want...?' His eyes tick downwards, and before Harry can reply his right palm presses against Harry's aching groin and Harry wants very badly to say no and doesn't.

Draco's hand is cold, and damp from where he's licked a stripe across it, and he smirks hollowly at Harry's hissed inhale as skin meets skin again. But it warms up quickly, and Harry steadies himself with his elbows either side of Draco's head and closes his eyes and thinks of nothing but how good this feels.

It doesn't take very long. Draco's very efficient.

The comedown is quick and brutal. Harry thinks inexplicably of second year, and a bewitched Bludger knocking him off his broom and him plummeting to earth and surviving it, just for Lockhart to vanish all the bones out of his arm. For long minutes neither of them move. Then, Draco pushes at Harry's shoulder and Harry forces his eyes open.

The other boy is staring back at him. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is sticking up everywhere from Harry pulling his fingers through it and Harry suddenly feels stupidly, _stupidly_ young and...It's been so long since he felt that.

'God I hate you.' Draco says eventually, so quietly.

'Oh. Same.' Harry returns, and doesn't even know if he's lying. He presses his fingertips to Draco's warm face. Draco closes his eyes.

'...When's your team coming down?'

Fuck, the team. Harry glances for the wall clock. It's stopped, of course.

'I. I have no idea. Half past two, but...'

Draco lifts his arm behind Harry's head to look at his own watch. His eyes flare. 'Shit.' He shoves Harry off him. Harry feels instantly bereft and kind of hates himself for it.

'A wonder McGonnagall hasn't apparated down here—'

'—You can't apparate inside Hogwar--'

'—You think I don't know that?' Draco snaps, with painful irony. He tugs at his clothes, trying to straighten them up a bit.

Suddenly self-conscious, Harry takes a few steps backwards, towards his Quidditch stuff, still spread out over the benches. He adjusts his own clothes, scrubs a pointless hand through his hair. All at once he's very grateful for Peeves as an excuse for the staining on the front of his trousers. He can hear Draco's boots on the vinyl floor, the soft noise of him pulling his cloak on again. And the rain, still pattering against the roof.

The idea of a few hours' flying practice right now is...Unappealing. Vaguely, Harry wonders if he has enough time to dash back to Gryffindor tower and beg a migraine. Belatedly, he fishes in his pocket for his glasses and pushes them back onto his face.

When he turns back around, the other boy is still there, lips thin and eyes looking so much darker than normal above the pink still staining his cheekbones.

They look awkwardly at each other for a moment. Then Draco takes a step closer.

'Stop following me.' He says, in a tone that Harry just...can't interpret at all. Despite everything, Harry half thinks (hopes) he's going to kiss him again. But he doesn't. He just looks at him for a second longer before he shucks his kit bag further up his shoulder and stalks out, smacking the door off the wall once again.

'...I'm not following you...' Harry whispers. But he trails off.

He _wasn't_. Not this time. But. He's not sure what his excuse is for the last seven years.

He stares at the door. There are little spots of blackness blossoming at the corners of his vision and he thinks resignedly he'd better get up in the air before anyone notices how incriminating he looks. Or into the shower. He could probably manage a shower. He curls his right hand into a fist and instantly regrets it.

Definitely a shower.

He takes a step back and feels something soft give way under his boot. Realises Malfoy's left his gloves behind.

Quickly, without thinking, he shoves them into his pocket.

'Nice gloves.' Ron says through a mouthful of toast a few days later, nodding at them.

'Renewed my Quidditch Monthly subscription.' Harry lies, shoving the gloves quickly into his bag before Hermione can get a good look at them. 'I needed new ones.'

There are two slips of paper attached to the leg of the owl that's landed next to his breakfast. One has Harry's own writing on it, a note he regretted almost as soon as he sent it: _thought you might want these back_. The other has four words in a sharp, looping scrawl he recognises too well, and he glances at it one more time before he folds it and pushes it into his pocket, a weird feeling in his stomach he decides to ignore for now.

 _Bring them yourself then_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Always love to hear your comments <3


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